


Moon Blood

by Thymesis



Series: Star Wars Rare Pairs Collection (NC-17) [20]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Chocolate Box Exchange 2018, Extremely Underage, F/M, First Time, Goddess Worship, Loss of Virginity, Menstrual Sex, Pre-Star Wars: The Phantom Menace, Rites of Passage, Treat, Worldbuilding, who is manipulating whom?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-01 09:32:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13292022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thymesis/pseuds/Thymesis
Summary: Padmé Naberrie celebrates her coming of age.





	Moon Blood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AngelQueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelQueen/gifts).



> Posted to the exchange on February 1, 2018.
> 
>    
>  _ **Nota Bene:** This story includes content with pretty serious squick potential. If you have not yet read the tags, I would strongly advise you to do so before proceeding._

A full moon is rising, and the air is still, humid, and heavy with the tantalizing fragrance of night-blooming flowers.

Padmé Naberrie reclines on the yeo laid out in her family’s rooftop garden and bathes in Her holy light. Humans have worshipped Shiraya, the Goddess of the Moon, since colonizing Naboo many millennia ago, and Padmé is a devout follower.

That is how her parents have raised her, how their parents had raised _them_. Yes, she understands her ancestors’ complicated and problematic history of domination, subjugation, and, at certain tragic times, outright genocide, of Naboo’s native Gungans. When the phases of the moon govern the tides which rise and fall each day, expanding and contracting like the beat of a heart as far deep as the very planet core itself, and there were Humans who wished to assert their species superiority over the Gungans _…_

But casualties were sustained on both sides. The Gungans killed untold numbers of Humans too. That doesn’t necessarily excuse what her ancestors did, of course, or forgive the extirpation of Gungans from the most bountiful Nubian lands.

In the end, however, Padmé believes firmly in the value of ritual, of tradition, and she loves her homeworld and its all of its people. She hopes to serve them one day.

Besides, the moon doesn’t just govern the planet’s tides. Carbon-based lifeforms such as herself are mostly water, and Padmé has been taught that, like water, Humans can be chaotic, changeable, and confusing, and so she prays to the Goddess to bring order to her mind and body. Shiraya governs the tides within Padmé as well.

Her blessing is especially important now that Padmé’s moon blood flows. She is thirteen years old, and this is the first lunar cycle it has come.

Padmé closes her eyes and turns her senses inward. Although she cannot feel the blood leaving her body, she thinks she may detect a distant, dull ache down low in her belly. It’s a strange feeling; she can’t quite describe it. A premonition of future childbearing? She also hopes for a daughter of her own one day.

“I would have thought you would be enjoying the party. It is, after all, being held to celebrate your coming of age.”

Padmé’s eyes fly open at the sound of the unexpected yet not unwelcome voice.

“Senator Palpatine,” she says. “You honor me with your presence.”

“Please. The honor is all mine. Ah— No, no,” he chides when she he sees her making to rise from the yeo, “no need to get up. I cannot stay long, but I did wish to congratulate you in person nonetheless. Your mother sent a holomessage bearing the glorious news. I cleared my diary and departed for Naboo within the hour. How could I not be here for you at such a time?”

Padmé smiles appreciatively. Her mother does like to meddle, and Jobal Naberrie has no qualms about introducing her daughter to an old friend from childhood when said daughter has professed political ambitions and said old friend from childhood has become Naboo’s representative to the Galactic Senate.

Palpatine does in fact look like he has been traveling, Padmé realizes; instead of his customary, richly-brocaded Senatorial robes, he is wearing a simple tunic and trousers favored by Humans on half a hundred-thousand different worlds.

“Jobal also informs me that you’ve been excelling in the Legislative Youth Program. She does have a lamentable tendency to exaggerate, though…so tell me, my dear—are you _truly_ at the top of your cla—”

Palpatine’s question is interrupted by a sudden shout. A second shout follows fast on the heels of the first. He cocks his head, listening. Padmé does likewise. They hear several successive softer cries and whimpers…then silence.

“I’ve been too long on Coruscant. I can’t remember the last time I’ve heard moonsong,” Palpatine remarks, his expression wistful with nostalgia. “As a boy I used lie awake with the windows open to listen. I suppose I had half-assumed the practice had died out.”

“Don’t be silly,” Padmé chides gently. “Most of our people are still believers like us. What do you think this yeo is out here for?” She pats the bed pallet she has been reclining upon the entire time they’ve been chatting.

On nights like this one, lovers—especially couples consummating a marriage, wishing to conceive, or simply renewing their bonds—bed down outdoors. It is said that Shiraya will grant them Her benediction and synchronize the tides within them if they make love beneath the light of the full moon. The poets call their cries of ecstasy “moonsong.”

What they’d just heard was two beings making love on an adjacent rooftop.

Suddenly, Padmé is conscious once again of the dull ache inside of her…and of a newfound urgency, much sharper and brighter, layered on top of it. She holds out her hand, greatly daring. “Perhaps you would enjoy a duet with me tonight, Senator?”

Palpatine seems surprised for a moment, but then his thin lips twist into a regretful and rather condescending smile. “Dearest Padmé, I am flattered, really I am, but I’m afraid I’m a bit, well, a bit too old for—”

Is he going to say “too old for her”…? Of course he’s old! He’s old, and more importantly, he’s _powerful_. What’s not to be attracted to? To find irresistible? And the notion of making a powerful being like Sheev Palpatine, Nubian Senator of the Galactic Republic, lose control of himself and cry out to the Goddess— _for her_ —is, oooohhhh yes—

It’s her turn to interrupt him. “Moon blood means I am of statutory age. I could run for office and be duly elected as your next _Queen_. Yet you would not also accept me as your lover?”

“You have a point,” he concedes with some reluctance. “I can already see that you will be a formidable opponent in the debate arena. Are you absolutely certain this is your wish?”

“Yes.” Her voice is steady, strong. No overweening confidence or false bravado. He cannot know from it that she is a virgin.

He sits down at the foot of the yeo and runs an inquisitive finger along the hem of her dress. She still wears the heavy, gray and plum formalwear and filigreed silver fan hairpiece from her Ceremony of Passage at Temple an hour or so prior, and they are complicated to remove.

Skirts, though, are always easy to lift, and underneath, she wears only her wicking cloth. With some amount of shifting and wriggling, she is able to hike her skirts up almost to her waist. She opens her legs in invitation; she is eager.

What Palpatine does next surprises her: After easing the wicking cloth away and tossing it aside, he holds her outer labia open with the fingers of one hand…and then he puts her mouth on her.

There is no hesitation or sign of disgust from him as his tongue darts and probes her secret creases and crevasses and plunges into her vaginal opening, swirling about, stretching, preparing, cleaning, and tasting her in equal measure. He suckles on the nub of her clitoris until it swells and Padmé is writhing, clutching at her skirts, almost tearing the fabric in her excitement, hips canted upwards with desire, ready, so ready…

She watches as Palpatine levers himself back upright. He purses his lips as he opens the front of his trousers, and she can see traces of her blood on his chin—it is black in the moonlight. His penis is already semi-erect when he frees it, and a dozen strokes are all that is required to bring himself to full hardness, thick and straight.

He is…larger than average, surely. She reckons that her thumb and forefinger may not meet were she to try to encircle the shaft with them. The soft, mobile skin is so pale it seems almost translucent, and the glans, when unhooded, is a dusky rose color, elegantly tapered, like a fruit made of living flesh.

“Are you absolutely certain this is your wish?” Palpatine asks her again. Were one to overhear only the questions, sans context, one might think he was asking her to confirm her choice of entrée from a lunch menu at one of Theed’s better restaurants. He sounds calm, utterly in control, divorced from his own arousal as Padmé could never be from hers.

But she knows he is aching with want for her too. A tiny crystalline bead of fluid drops, unchecked and unremarked, from the tip of his penis and onto the yeo.

Padmé nods, unable to speak, her throat full. She wants to give her assent, to cry out, to beg, demand, or plead, but she cannot. She feels like she is being choked with invisible hands of pure _need_.

Even after preparing her, even in spite of her arousal, even with the extra lubrication provided by the constant trickle of moon blood, entry is difficult. He struggles to breach her, and she whimpers as that tapered glans pushes, unrelenting, tearing her open. There is an electric flash of pain, and Padmé, suddenly no longer mute, cries out—he has broken her maidenhead.

 _Is that it?_ she wonders. She can hardly believe what they have done. If he has made her bleed anew, she will never know.

“I am a third of the way inside you at most,” Palpatine says, as if addressing the thoughts in her head. “Do you still wish to continue?”

“Yes,” she says fiercely. “ _Yes_. Do it. Get it over with. Now. Now. _Now_.”

He obeys without further question, and her flesh gives way fully to his single, surging, remorseless thrust. This second, deeper pain is almost as awful as the first, and she cries out again, but when his glans strokes and prods her cervix…aaaahhhh yes, that is bliss.

And when he begins to thrust—oh!—unnumbered thrusts that rock and shake her to the core of her being. She pushes back wantonly into each thrust, meeting him in the middle. The initial pain of their joining is forgotten in passion. They are equals now in lovemaking—this is as it should be. And the pleasure is sweeter now, less like allspice and more like evergreen honey; Padmé luxuriates in it. She can smell the earthy scent of their sex, the iron tang of her blood. She listens to the wet sounds of their joining, of the ringing slap slap slap of flesh agains flesh.

Oh, how she wishes she could embrace him! But she must maintain her hold on her skirts, and the bunched up cloth is a heaped barrier between them.

So, instead, she watches. Never mind his lamentations about his advanced age relative to hers; Palpatine has great stamina. He knows just how to angle each in and out, in and out, in and out thrust and retreat to make her whimper and sob. Palpatine himself, however, is silent. Mute as a burial crypt, as the ashes of the deceased.

Padméinvited him to a duet. This is not meant to be a solo performance. She wants to hear him sing—to scream. Fine. She will _make_ him scream.

It becomes a challenge. She begins to experiment, flexing and tightening on his shaft as he slides back and forth, and he does not cry out, he does not even sigh, but tiny twin lines form between his eyebrows, and his rhythm changes, becoming faster, more urgent, digging harder into her, rotating his hips, and making her groan.

Shiraya has received many offerings already from Padmé tonight.

And now, at last, She receives one from Palpatine as well. As he cries out, his face contorts, twists, crumples, and in the moonlight, for just a moment, he doesn’t look Human.

 _He looks like a monster_.

The fleeting impression is gone as he spills himself, warm and profuse, and collapses against her. She follows him into orgasm immediately, tensing and pulsing, shrieking unmentionable obscenities through a locked jaw because it is never this intense when she touches herself. Tears trickle from the corners of her eyes. And then they drift together, mindless and peaceful, in the afterglow of their ecstasy. She is finally able to take his penis into her hand—he’s as big as she’d thought—and to stroke it tenderly as it softens. The moon blood and the virgin blood he has been marked with begins to dry and flake away.

Too soon, all too soon, Palpatine extricates himself from her tangle of robes and limbs. “I really must go, my dear,” he informs her regretfully. “We’re expecting to consider new tariff legislation in the Senate tomorrow, and unless I am present in person I fear Naboo will not be treated fairly in the particulars.”

“I understand, Senator. We all must do as we must,” she replies.

“Thank you.”

He presses an affectionate farewell kiss to her lips. She reciprocates aggressively, pulling him back down onto the yeo and forcing his mouth open with hers and pushing her tongue against the sensitive spots behind his teeth. She realizes she can _taste_ herself in him.

After that, he takes but a moment to close his trousers and otherwise collect himself. As he departs the Naberrie family’s rooftop garden, Padmé notices that there is not a single spot of blood visible anywhere upon Palpatine’s person. In contrast, Padmé knows without having to check them that her ceremonial robes are so badly soiled that they will not be salvageable.

She lies back on the yeo, uncaring. The moon is full, and she intends to enjoy it fully.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Some of the material related to culture, history, and religion on Naboo has been borrowed from [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7658809) and [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7731400).


End file.
